Taylor Hamann Los

THE DREAM BEGINS WITH FIGS

spilling over the bedroom floor.
These astonishing little bodies

with petals turned inward to bloom
in what some would call safety.

I unpeel one & stain everything:
the maple, the sheets, the soft spot

I once let a man touch without
offering him anything in return.

Does that make me the worst kind
of liar? I’ve stripped naked fruit trees

in the name of obedience to someone
I thought I would love. Isn’t that the worst

kind of lie? The muted sweetness
that begins with fingers interlaced,

legs tangled like bindweed. I don’t know
who to beg for mercy when it ends.